


Your Day Number One In the Rest of Forever

by jjtaylor



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Communication kink, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, M/M, the mosaic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 03:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjtaylor/pseuds/jjtaylor
Summary: Obligatory imagining of what the "You want to live your life? Live it here." fight was all about.“We've been here years and all I've ever seen is you controlled,” Quentin mutters. “Never once have you shown me any kind of …...”  His voice trails off, and Eliot waits as Quentin searches for a word.  “You're so locked up tight I can't solve you, I'll figure out the damn mosaic before I figure you out.”“I'm an open book,” Eliot says, but the truth of it is in his chest. He is tightly controlled and for good reason. It’s as effortless as breathing at this point.





	Your Day Number One In the Rest of Forever

Eliot is examining the stack of previous patterns without really seeing them. His frustration is just under the surface and he's half-expecting Quentin to do the opposite of what he'd shouted at him, to give up on the quest, go live his life somewhere else, just out of Coldwater stubbornness. The slow, cooking anger had been building up in Eliot the longer they stayed here, the more discontented and restless he watched Quentin get at every failure. 

“Oops,” Quentin says without effect, as he deliberately kicks over the tiles.

“Maybe not the best approach to finding the beauty of all life?” Eliot says, slow and shocked, as Quentin knocks over another pile. The clack of them scattering has a heavy echo. “You're going to break them,” Eliot says, unable to read the stern, dark-eyed expression on Quentin's face. 

“Then let it break,” Quentin says, and knocks the papers from Eliot's hand. Next, he upends the basket of pastels, clattering as they spill to the ground.

Quentin shoves Eliot out of his way and their arms tangle as Eliot tries to grab Quentin's hands, to still him. Quentin can destroy whatever else he wants, but destroying the mosaic feels too symbolic. He gets down on his knees as Quentin claws at the tiles and Eliot tries to stop him. With another shove, Quentin unbalances Eliot, and he falls back, landing on his shoulder. 

“If you're going to have a destructive fit, let me take refuge inside,” Eliot says, but it's all posture as rights himself and tries again to stop Quentin. But then, Quentin's leaning close, the storm in his eyes now a torrent on his face. “Um -” Eliot says, in accidental impression of Quentin, right before Quentin puts both his hands on Eliot's shoulders, pushes him down onto his back on the mosaic, and leans so terribly slowly down.

“Oops,” Quentin says, and then he kisses Eliot; not the soft, gentle kiss of exploration that they'd shared on their anniversary, but a kiss full of saved up thoughts, like pages and pages of confession spilling from a diary, but here it's Quentin's breath spilling across Eliot's cheek, Quentin's tongue moving slick and hot against Eliot's own. Eliot pulls Quentin down against him, spreads his legs out so Quentin’s between them. 

How often has he thought about pushing Quentin down on the damn mosaic and kissing him stupid? No, that’s like asking how many times he's blinked since they'd been here. How many times has he considered it a real possibility? That they could do this – that he could have this, even once, before Quentin went all skittery and nervous, afraid he was missing some big adventure just beyond the tree line?

Quentin seems to sense Eliot's mind wandering and he bites at Eliot's earlobe, then his jaw, “Shit,” Eliot gasps, “Never thought I'd get you to use your teeth.” Quentin obviously takes that as a challenge. He grabs the material of Eliot's shirt in his way. Instinctively Eliot tilts his head so his throat is exposed. Quentin bites hard enough that Eliot knows it's going to bruise. 

He sighs and Quentin does it again, lower down, chin against Eliot’s collarbone.

“Did you -” he stumbles as Quentin continues, “Inhale some sort of Fillorian aphrodisiac?

Eliot reaches up and pulls out Quentin's ponytail. The fall of Quentin's hair across Eliot’s throat makes him tip his head further back and press his feet down to get some leverage in his hips. He needs to take his shoes off, bury his feet in the warm sand.

“So I can only touch you when I'm horny, is that what you're saying?” There's danger in Quentin's voice and not the fun kind.

“You can touch me anytime you want,” Eliot promises, and Quentin does touch him. A gentle pat on his arm to point out his favorite birds passing through the trees or a tug on his ankle when Quentin needs the ladder perspective on the mural. The soft brush of feet in the bed that's too short for Eliot's legs and so he curls much closer to Quentin than he means to. And of course he means all the vagaries and variables – Quentin can touch him idly and softly and passionately. Quentin had been touching him just now, and Eliot isn't sure how they've started talking and stopped moving. He touches his hand to Quentin's back, trying to guide them together again.

But Quentin doesn’t give, his body coiled and tight. 

“We've been here years and all I've ever seen is you controlled,” Quentin mutters. “Never once have you shown me any kind of …...” His voice trails off, and Eliot waits as Quentin searches for a word. “You're so locked up tight I can't solve you, I'll figure out the damn mosaic before I figure you out.”

“I'm an open book,” Eliot says, but the truth of it is in his chest. He is tightly controlled and for good reason. It’s as effortless as breathing at this point.

“I waited for you to show me,” Quentin says, pained and desperate. “I've waited for you to show me that it was ok. This – this thing between us. This thing I feel.” Quentin's whole body is restless, and his has taken on a nervous, breathy stutter. “I want to know what you want,” Quentin says, so softly. “What you really want. Not the answer to keep me happy. I want to know.”

“I don't know,” Eliot says, and slumps back onto the mosaic, presses his hands to his eyes.

“You don't know,” Quentin says, and after a moment where he seems to consider getting up, lies down next to him. Some of Quentin's hair catches the breeze and tickle's Eliot's cheek. “That's not an answer.”

“Isn't it?” Eliot says, wordlessly inviting Quentin to consider the breadth of what they're talking about. Keen Quentin, knowing what he's read in the open book of Eliot. Definitely a short book, a chapbook of poetry maybe. Pretty, some bawdy and a lot of white space.

“Eliot – maybe – ,” Quentin is up on his elbow, and Eliot thinks that's enough, thinks that now Quentin will lean down and kiss him again, but Quentin's face is a shadow of confusion. “Maybe it's not just because we're stuck here on this impossible quest,” Quentin says, “It's because it's finally just you and me and I can – I can see what it's like, I can know that it's – that it's safe, that it's not a disaster – but you have to - ”

Eliot’s been lucky enough to learn what Quentin's spiraling sounds out loud. It feels like an intimate gift, for Quentin to voice the trails his brain takes him on, faltering on the right words. It doesn’t make it easier to understand his point. 

“What, Q?” Eliot says, tugging Quentin closer, because he's trembling now. “Tell me, I can - whatever you need.”

“But do you need me?”

Eliot's heart picks up. Leave it to Quentin to come up with the most terrifying question, the one he almost got away without being asked, ever. Of course Quentin would bring them here. He scans the edges of the tree limbs, looking for the places where the sun shines through so bright it's still there when he closes his eyes. There's no safe answer. There is no secret he's held, smoldering. It can't spill out if it's not there. 

He holds Quentin, presses his forehead into Quentin's shoulder. It's like casting a spell, a tangle of fingers to unlock his own doors. Eliot needs to hold the answer like molten crystal, like holding a star. If he opens the room inside himself , there would forever be nothing but need in it, enough to shatter the door. It would consume him.

“Yeah,” Eliot whispers, and forces himself to meet Quentin's concerned eyes when he says it, “I need you.”

Quentin presses his head to Eliot's chest, a tender, grounding motion, and Eliot runs fingers through Quentin's hair, first gently, then more urgently. Quentin kisses him again, in a fluid motion of returning their bodies together like they hadn't been parted, like they were always supposed to fit like this.

Quentin's whole disposition has changed with Eliot's confession, and it occurs to Eliot that he's misread the situation entirely, assuming guile where Quentin had only vulnerability. He was sure Quentin would relax once Eliot spoke his answer aloud, but Quentin is moving, slow and trembling, like he honestly didn't know what Eliot's answer was going to be.

“You're surprised,” Eliot says, gently, cupping Quentin's face.

“You're not the only one who doesn't want things so they don't have to be disappointed.” Quentin looks away while he says it, but then darts his gaze back to Eliot, and away again, like he's waiting for Eliot to change his mind.

“Bite me again,” Eliot says, because this is easier to do, to flirt and be playful, and Quentin laughs against his mouth, “I like it when you forget to overthink it.”

“The same goes for you,” Quentin says.

“I would hardly characterize myself as thinking too much,” Eliot says.

“Well then, I like it when you need me,” Quentin says, and the jolt through Eliot is electric, full-bodied, transcendent. He turns them, so Quentin is under him, and kisses Quentin until neither of them has to think anymore.

Quentin sighs against him, breathy and demanding, and Eliot cradles his head in his hands, even though the tiles are hard against his fingers. Quentin's damn hair, of course he wants to get his hands in it, he wants to make Quentin toss his head, tangle it endlessly. He wants to soothe all of Quentin's anxieties, still all of his frantic movements – he wants Quentin's gift of intensely focused, single-minded determination, all of it directed right at him. 

Eliot gives himself over. This isn't a time for fancy moves. This is the time to throw himself at impossible odds and pray that he makes it through. 

Eliot rocks their hips together and Quentin groans, softly against Eliot's neck. His mouth finds the bites from earlier, tongues at them, and then sucks hard. Eliot gasps into Quentin's hair. “Sorry,” Quentin whispers, obviously not sorry at all. “I got carried away.”

“Carry me with you,” Eliot says, and Quentin takes him at his word. He slides his hands up under Eliot's shirt, spreads his hips open so Eliot settles deep into the vee of his legs, and he sucks on the tendon in Eliot's neck. He's subsumed in the heat of Quentin's mouth on his throat, so close to his jugular it feels like Quentin's thrumming tongue is speeding up his very blood.

“I want - ” Quentin says, and then turns his head back so they're kissing, Eliot slides his hands up under Quentin's tunic, thumbs brushing up over Quentin's nipples, and Quentin arches and whines and so Eliot does it again and again, until they're rocking against each other, speeding full force towards the end without even getting undressed. Quentin pushes Eliot back then sits forward to pull his shirt off, unseats Eliot just enough to slides his pants down.

Eliot watches, mouth open, hit too fast with all of the places he wants to taste, all of the places to press his mouth.

“I want – I want you to come on me,” Quentin blurts out and Eliot's head goes completely blank. He presses Quentin back down, kisses his chest and collarbone, down his sternum and his belly, working his way down to take Quentin's cock into his mouth.

“Oh god,” Quentin groans as Eliot sucks him, and his protest when Eliot pulls back is glorious and sweet. Eliot quickly shucks off his clothes and presses their bodies together. When they’re finally skin to skin, the noise Quentin makes is one Eliot's never heard from him before. Desire threaded with surprise and tangled with need. Bright and hot and thrilling.

“Yes,” Quentin says, such relief, as though he'd thought for a second he'd asked for something he wasn't going to get. As though, once he'd pried open Eliot's doors, Eliot wasn't going to give himself over completely.

Eliot glories in the feeling of sliding his cock against the curve of Quentin's hip, and then he takes both of them in his hand, fingers stretched, his thumb sliding over the leaking tip of Quentin's cock. 

“Oh,” Quentin gasps, “Oh, El, yes.” Eliot works them, his eyes closed, so he can better feel everything, every shift, every shaky exhale. Quentin's whole body is expressive, arching and curling in. Quentin plants his feet and rocks his hips up, pressing his cock into Eliot's hand. Eliot has a vision of what it would be like to ride Q, to feel those hips pressing up under him. A shiver passes over him, head to toe, and then Quentin shivers, an intimate conversation just with their bodies.

And oh, does Eliot have a lot to say. “Q, how are you so stunning?” Eliot breathes out, almost insensible. Eliot releases their cocks, tugging twice on his own before willing himself to stop, and he arranges himself to suck Quentin again. Quentin howls, and Eliot's so pleased, he lets his eyes fall closed, his palms on Quentin's sharp hipbones, his thumbs stroking against the soft skin.

“El, oh god, El, El,” Quentin pants, and then he goes tense and silent, his mouth open in a wordless cry as he comes in Eliot's mouth, his whole body bows, stunning, perfect, absolutely lost in the moment.

“I meant it, Eliot,” Quentin murmurs, still trembling with aftershocks. “I want you to come on me.”

Eliot's so close that Quentin's soft whisper is almost too much. 

“Yes,” Eliot says, planting his hands on either side of Quentin's head, bracing himself as he works his cock against Quentin's stomach. “Fuck, Q, yes, yes,” he moans, and when Quentin reaches up and scrapes his fingers across Eliot's jaw, just enough to catch on his stubble, he comes, leaning into Quentin's hand as he shudders and loses his breath.

His arms give out and Eliot tries not to collapse onto Quentin and squish him. He slumps down and then shifts off Quentin, pressing close to his side.

“God,” Quentin says, looking up at the sky, and Eliot tries to watch the clouds but his eyes won't stay open. 

“You're beautiful,” Eliot says, Quentin's huff of a laugh means he doesn't believe him.

“Your eyes are closed.”

“It's still true,” Eliot says. “I have object permanence, I can remember what you look like.”

“I'm sorry I messed up the tiles,” Quentin says.

“I was the one who wouldn't let the argument drop,” Eliot says. “You know how I like to have the last word.” 

“The work we've done isn’t meaningless. I don't want to throw it away.”

“I know.” 

“It's just – it's important because it's how we got here and I want to finish it but it's – it's not the thing I can't survive without.”

“I can't tell if that is more or less existential because we're naked,” Eliot says. Quentin laughs, warm, beside him. He's lucky, that Quentin knows he isn't changing the subject, just that there's only so much he can say aloud. 

Eliot can feel the dappled sun on his face, the shifting shadows of the light through the leaves. Quentin's soft breathing beside him. Eliot lets himself be here, in this moment. There's always another moment in which he can pick up the performance, where he can smooth his rough edges into something more appealing. Another chance to keep everything risky and messy at arm's length, to slow everything down and control it. 

But for now, his edges are chalk- dusted, approximate. Sun-soaked and naked, and he needs Quentin. Quentin knows it, and Eliot’s not going to have to pay for it later. Speaking it alone was the payment, and what he gets – what he gets in return, is Quentin.

Quentin seems to understand all of it, as usual, seems to know more than Eliot will ever let on. And until Quentin turns away, or until his slow heavy eyes blink into sleep, Eliot will allow himself to be seen.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to romanticalgirl for betaing and wading through a fandom she isn't even in. And thanks to my enthusiastic twitter friends who introduced Eliot Waugh into my life and my WIP folder.  
> Title from Vienna Teng's 'Level Up'


End file.
